


love is a deeper season than reason (and april's where we are)

by midsummernightoddity



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bipolar Disorder, Canon Rewrite, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Fix-It of Sorts, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating will definitely change, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, THE BEGINNING OF THIS IS JUST SATURATED ANGST, also i'm a bit kinder to Britt in this than the canon writing was, and by that i mean Robbe's state of mind after he saw Sander and Britt kissing and left that party, internalized ableism, miscommunication wie? i don't know her, so please keep that in mind if that's something potentially triggering for you, this fic is an all-you-can-eat buffet of, this starts out T/M-rated but at some point it will go up to explicit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:20:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23742937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midsummernightoddity/pseuds/midsummernightoddity
Summary: Zaterdag 21:35 in another universe, where Sander finds out that Robbe was at the party and follows him
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Comments: 49
Kudos: 154





	1. night trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Sooo, I've had this idea ever since Zaterdag 21:35 dropped, and because my heart is soft and distinctly Robbe-shaped, this clip pretty much wrecked me. Back then, I wasn't writing, but I am now, so I decided to self-indulge and finally write this fic, try to make a bit more sense out of Sander going back to Britt after their bashing, give them the opportunity to communicate and explore how things between them would progress, if Sander found out that Robbe was at that party and went after him. ~~If there wasn't a hell week of confusion and agony, basically.~~
> 
> (Oh, wow, I just now realized I'm posting this on the 6th month anniversary since that cursed day.)
> 
> I'll be adding relevant **TW** for chapters in the end notes. (Most of the triggering content is only in this chapter though.)
> 
> Stay safe, guys. ❤️  
>   
> 

Robbe’s only distantly aware that his feet are taking him somewhere, but his brain and muscles feel more disconnected with every step. There’s no sense of direction, just the vague, mindless impulse to go _away away away far away_.

The anger coursing through him is so intense it makes his ear ring, fills his vision with white noise—anger at himself for being so trusting, at Sander, at his friends, at his closet. At the world, for being the way it is.

If what he felt before was Chernobyl, right now the overload comes with the force of natural destruction, completely out of his control and much larger than him, and Robbe feels ridiculously human, foolish and small—his body unnaturally bony and weak, close to cracking under an invisible pressure. Like the air is solid, too dense and compressing his lungs.

He stops walking somewhere in the park, when he realizes he’s trying to escape from his own head, from the deafening banging in his skull, oscillating between _why did you do this to me?_ and _do I deserve this?_. He grips strands of his hair, as if he could rip out the thoughts, and his mouth opens on a shout, not so much frustration, as much as a desperate attempt to drown out the continuous loop.

When he blinks, blue strobe lights flash behind his eyelids, vivid like afterimages of a nightmare. Looking up, he tries to find comfort in the sky, only to find it cracking with lightning.

Each thunderclap brings an almost a physical sensation of being flayed piece by piece, the storm too loud in his ears. The echo crawls under his skin, sets off a constant stream of _nobody cares if you’re gay nobody cares if you’re gay nobody cares if you’re gay._ The gash on his temple throbs painfully every time the words reverberate in his mind.

Everything is unbearably sharp and bright, yet he’s profoundly dissociated from it. Like he’s banished to a distant corner of the universe with nothing but his mind collapsing under its own gravity.

He thinks, _That’s how black holes are made_.

_This is where everything gets lost; crosses a border, but never makes it to the other side._

Time seems to slow down around him, his vision tunneling, but the flood of thoughts won’t stop.

He just wants it to _stop._

Moving with the semi-consciousness of a sleepwalker, he finds himself standing on the quay wall that stretches all along the periphery of the park, cold gusts of wind biting his face and blowing through his hair. He looks down at where the Schelde ripples under him, distorted reflection of all the night’s lights, and all Robbe can think about is the darkness of the water below.

He’s so tired and his whole body hurts and distantly, he thinks he hears rapid thumping, someone yelling his name.

Clenching his eyelids, he tries to tune out both.

_Stop imagining things, it’s all wishful thinking._

He tries to breathe through the chaos.

“Robbe—”

All of a sudden, there are hands locking on his, pulling him back so sharply, he loses his balance. Instead of crashing on the cement, he collides into a firm chest, inertia sending both him and the person behind him flailing back, until they both collapse on soft ground.

Full awareness comes back in increments, his senses catching up bit by bit like a slow slip out of hypnosis.

His heart is in his throat, pounding painfully in his temples.

Damp grass tickles his neck.

As he inhales deeply, his lungs fill with the smell of rain-soaked earth and something else—the same scent he chased last night, the faint traces of it lingering on his pillow, as he tried to hold back his tears, so as not to soak the fabric and lose them.

Clammy palms shake on his face, warm frantic thumbs rubbing circles over his cheeks, bringing focus to the face above his.

Robbe’s eyes meet deep green, wild and anxious, and Sander makes a choked sound in his throat, hands releasing his face to wrap around his middle.

“Robbe,” with a shuddering breath of relief, he lowers his face, forehead pressing against Robbe’s chest. “F-fuck, you scared me so much.”

The grip around his body is so tight it’s almost painful. Robbe wants to say _let go of me_. He wants to say _please, don’t ever let me go._

He ends up saying nothing, grinding his teeth in frustration.

“Are you okay?” Sander asks, looking up at him.

The question is so ridiculous, the fact that it comes from Sander—even more so, and Robbe can’t help the laugh that escapes him, as hollow as he feels right now.

“I’m great, Sander,” his smile is acrid, bitterness seeping into every word. “Can’t you tell?”

“Robbe, I…” Sander begins with a sigh. “I know you have no reason to believe me right now, and I don’t know what exactly you saw. But, I promise you—”

Robbe doesn’t give him chance to continue.

The word _promise_ strikes a match against his insides and this time, the surge of anger isn’t numbing. It’s an ignition, a shot of adrenaline that sends his muscles ahead of his brain, pure instinct overtaking, as he pushes Sander on the grass. Sander’s words die on a stuttered breath, green eyes going wide, as Robbe rolls over and straddles him all in one swift movement.

“Stop,” Robbe cuts him off, and lowers his body. He barely recognizes his own voice. “You’re right, I have absolutely no reason to believe you. The only thing that makes any sense right now, is that you never meant to stick around for long, that this whole thing was a play-act. What I don’t understand is why you would go through the effort of making me a part of it.” He balls his fists in the collar of Sander’s jacket, as the words pour out of him. “What was the plan, Sander? You got bored, is that it, decided to have a fun little sideshow with someone gullible and inexperienced enough to entertain you? Was I just—”

Faster than Robbe can process, Sander bolts upright, big hands closing around Robbe’s wrists, trapping them in the tight squeeze between their bodies. Faces and lips are suddenly close enough for their heavy, audible breaths to mingle, for Robbe to feel how much they are both shaking. He’s rendered speechless, throat drying up at the wild-eyed intensity of Sander’s face.

“Don’t,” Sander whispers roughly. A myriad of emotions twists his features, as his voice cracks. “D-Don’t say that. You can never be “ _just”_ anything, much less a temporary entertainment,” his fingers tighten fractionally around Robbe’s wristbones.

“Then why do you keep lying to me?”

“I’m not. If I’m leading someone on, it’s her. And I told her as much, as soon as I pulled back, I told her that I shouldn’t have kissed her,” he glances sideways with a grimace. “That’s when Noor came to us, said you two had a fight, and that you suddenly stormed out of the party. I’m not sure what Britt saw in my face at that moment, right before I rushed out to find you, but she just looked at me and said _go_. So I guess some part of her understood.”

When Robbe remains silent, Sander’s hands release their hold, but come up and clutch at his face.

“I’m a piece of shit for kissing her, because it was an empty impulse that meant nothing and felt wrong the moment I did it, and she doesn’t deserve that.” Quiet, almost fearful, he adds, “Because she’s barely touching the surface of my heart. But you have so much of it that—” he drops his eyes with a shaky exhale “—it’s practically yours.”

The barbed wire around Robbe’s heart loosens slightly, as he lets the words sink it. He softens, somewhat mollified, but just as confused, maybe even more so.

“So why did you do it in the first place, Sander?”

Sander looks around the darkness of the park. “Can we talk somewhere else about this?” he asks.

Robbe studies him for a second, allows himself to take in the urgency in his eyes, how his hands are still slightly unsteady.

He gives a reluctant nod, “Fine.”

The walk to the flat share is mostly silent, but far less awkward than it should be. Even now, with palpable tension between, there’s an undeniable comfort in Sander’s company. As much as the thought frustrates Robbe, he mostly just feels _safe_ , peaceful.

Halfway through, he realizes with a painful twist in his gut, that they’re not taking any shortcuts. That, by some semi-conscious shared instinct, they’ve both been sticking only to big streets, walking as close as possible to the light of grocery stores and bars.

They walk under neon signs and pass by windows, and their reflection is like a flash of memory, a reminder of a vastly different Sander under the same lights—bright face and bashful, lopsided grin, his eyes sparking mischievously, when Robbe had thrown back his booking joke right back at him. 

But right now, Sander looks like a fluorescent-lit fallen angel, electric green eyes downcast, uncharacteristically vacant and static. His cheeks are hollow, skin paper-thin and pale enough for Robbe to see some of the veins crisscrossing his face.

There are dark circles under his eyes—darker on his left side, where purples blend into blues, and it’s hard to distinguish where the shadow of fatigue starts and the black eye begins.

It makes a wave of tenderness sweep through Robbe, so overwhelming he feels weak with it, with the impulse to cup Sander’s face gently and press a kiss to the bruise.

He has to clench his fists to resist it.

—

Robbe unlocks the door and lets them both in the flat, as he shushes Sander, mouthing a quiet _roommates_. As they slip into his bedroom, Robbe registers the complete mess inside, but he's so tired that he literally doesn’t have the energy to even be embarrassed about it. He just walks to the bed, flopping gracelessly on it.

“So?” Robbe looks up expectantly at Sander, who’s still standing in the middle of the room, eyes fixed on Robbe, looking lost.

“Can I…” he hesitates, adam’s apple bobbing up. “Can I ask you something?”

“I guess.”

“When you were standing on the wall, before I pulled you back, it looked like you were about to—” he breaks off. His face contorts, words becoming barely audible, when his voice catches, “Please, tell me you weren’t thinking about—”

“Do you want me to lie, Sander?” Robbe says sharply, and immediately winces at the lingering anger and bitterness in the words, a lot more cruel and harsh than they are actually true. “No, look, I…”

Before he can backtrack, Sander looks away, face going blank, as he walks backwards, until his body hits the wall. Like a puppet with its strings cut, he slides down to the floor, shoulders sagging, as lowers his head in his hands.

His shallow breaths are loud in the stillness of the small room.

“I’m so fucking sorry, Robbe,” he chokes out.

Robbe stands up, and walks up to him. Slowly, he lowers his body, until he’s sitting next to him, their bent knees bumping.

“Listen,” Robbe sighs. “The truth is, I wasn’t thinking about...jumping, simply because I wasn’t thinking, _period_. There wasn’t a clear intention, I was barely even aware that I got up on that wall, it was like an out-of-body experience. I’m good at bottling things up, keeping them under pressure.” He glances sideways, hoping for some tiny, _any_ reaction at the reference, but there is none. “Until I explode, and everything I’ve suppressed, hits me 10 times as hard. And that’s what happened tonight, I felt too many things all at the same time, but some of them had nothing to do with you.” He picks a random loose thread in his pants in an attempt to distract himself, hyperaware of the fact that he’s spilling his guts. “And yes, seeing you with Britt was the last straw. But...it wasn’t the sole reason.”

Sander’s grip around the white strands of hair tightens, but otherwise he stays silent.

“These last 24 hours have been a lot, too much, to be honest, and I just…thought we had each other, is all,” Robbe mutters. “Especially since you said it.”

In the sheen of moonlight filtering through Robbe’s window, Sander is monochrome, like a frame in a black and white movie, when he draws in a ragged breath and leans back, half-shadowed face, his hair is white contrast and eyes seem gray, as they trail all over Robbe’s face.

“I got scared,” he whispers. “When we talked on the phone, you looked so tired and sad. I knew you were trying to hide it, of course, because that’s just who you are, baby.” Seemingly unaware of the pet name slipping out, or the shiver it sends through Robbe’s body, he just raises a hand and cups Robbe’s cheek gently. A corner of his lips quirks up the tiniest bit, like he can’t help it. “So brave and so fucking strong, and when you smiled, it was like a silver lining. But…” he trails off, shaking his head, as his hand drops from Robbe’s face.

Robbe resists the urge to take it and bring the comforting touch and warmth back, while he waits for Sander to continue.

“…but that made me sober up pretty quickly, once I realized I feel like the dark cloud, that your light has dimmed because of me,” he says with a frown. “And the feeling only got stronger, when I told you I love you, because I guess some naïve part of me was hoping you’d say it back,” he’s not meeting Robbe’s eyes, focused on the ring on his right hand, as he twists it around his finger. “I don’t really blame you for that, I was in for a reality check, after all, had to be reminded of what I’ve been dreading ever since I met you.”

“Which is?”

“That sooner or later you’ll realize you deserve a lot better than me.”

Robbe contemplates calling him out on his response, on what seems like a convenient “ _it’s not you, it’s me”_ deflection. But much like every other time Sander’s used clichés, this one doesn’t sound insincere either.

The thought that Sander might actually believe that makes Robbe’s chest tighten, painfully so.

“Except I haven’t, because my feelings for you haven’t changed. Why would they?”

“Fuck, Robbe,” Sander slams his head against the wall, jaw clenching. “Because I took you out on a date and you ended up spitting blood in a dark alley.”

“You did too,” Robbe reminds him.

“Yeah, well,” Sander’s chuckle is dark. “Maybe I deserved it, for flying too close to the sun.”

Robbe flinches at the vitriol, even though he recognizes it by now—that blind spot to the cocksure, devil-may-care attitude. He’s heard the same matter-of-fact harshness before, slipping through small cracks in Sander’s veneer.

_Maybe I’m just scared that I’m not going to find anyone. At least no one who’ll love me._

Robbe swallows around the lump in his throat and reaches out, relaxing the strain of Sander’s clenched fist, so he can clasp their hands together.

He ponders the words for a second longer, and chooses his own carefully.

“You forgave me after what I said to you, after how much I fucked up,” his thumb traces the veins on Sander’s hand. “So if you don’t blame me for my internalized homophobia,” he whispers softly. “Why would you blame yourself for the external one? The one that’s even less in our control?”

Sander finally looks at him, eyes widening, as the implications of the words sink, and Robbe believes for a moment that he’s managed to get through to him.

But then Sander looks away with a shake of his head, face pained.

“Because that’s what I am,” he breathes out, “I’m an artist, supposed to be good at creating things, right?” he snorts. “And maybe I am, but that hardly matters, because I can never make them last. Destruction always seems to catch up to me. At one point or another, I fuck things up, no matter how much I try not to, even when I think I’m doing the right thing.” Glancing at their locked hands, he whispers, “I know I hurt you. And I know my words probably don't mean a thing right now, but I never meant to. It was a coward’s move and I shouldn’t have assumed what’s best for you.”

Robbe wants to ask a hundred questions, wants to take Sander’s face and shout at him, tell him _how can you say that how can you be so cruel to yourself?_ He wants to whisper sweet nothings in his ear and say _you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,_ _you’re lovely, I didn’t know it was possible to feel this way and for my heart to beat so fast._ He wants to clash their mouths together and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, until their heads are completely empty, and they are both panting.

But he can’t do all those things right now, so he settles on a simpler version of the truth.

“You don’t have to assume. You just have to _be_ , and not run away from me, from _us_ , because the only thing I need is you.”

With a low, trembling sound escaping from his lips, Sander leans his head on Robbe’s shoulder.

“I need you too,” he whispers.

They go quiet for a while, before Sander takes Robbe’s hand, lifting it up to his face.

“Do you mind if I…stay here for the night?” he asks, mouthing the words against Robbe’s knuckles, presses a butterfly kiss on them. “I mean, I can sleep on the floor, of course.”

“Yeah, of course you can stay.”

They argue, briefly and only half-serious, about Sander’s insistence that he sleeps on the floor.

That is, until Robbe huffs, looks at Sander steadily, says _the last time we were lying on this bed, you had your tongue down my throat, Sander, I think we’re kind of past the_ _awkwardness and the initial boundaries of intimacy_. At that, Sander promptly shuts his mouth with something akin to surprise on his face, like he didn’t expect Robbe to be so straight-forward. It only lasts a second, and then, because he is Sander, after all, it’s quickly replaced by the spark of mischief, a smirk stretching his face, as he replies a teasing _okay, bossy_ _._ He dodges the pillow Robbe throws in his face with a giggle.

After they’ve stripped to their briefs and t-shirts, they settle under the covers.

“Robbe?” Sander mumbles, muffled against the pillow. He sounds a lot younger than he is and much more exhausted and sad than he should be. 

Robbe rolls around, so they are facing each other. “Yeah?”

“Remember when I told you about the other Sander, the one who’s with Britt in another universe?”

“I do.”

“I think that...If he’s anything even remotely like me, he wouldn’t be happy there," he says, hushed, like a secret. “I think he’d try to find you there, even if he has no idea what he’s looking for. I just wanted you to know that.”

He takes Sander’s hand, lacing their fingers in between their bodies.

He sees Sander’s eyelashes flutter, can almost feel him relaxing, and it makes the tension seep out of his own muscles too.

“Good night, Sander,” he mumbles softly, already half-asleep.

The last things he hears, before he falls asleep, is a slurred _good night, angel_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW** : suicidal ideation (or at least something close to it), dissociation (i know everyone handles anxiety and intense emotions differently, this is simply based on personal experience), discussion of homophobic attack
> 
> —
> 
> I've outlined 4 chapters for now, but they'll probably be 5 or 6, because this first chapter was supposed to be longer, before I decided to split it in two parts.
> 
> In terms of timeline, it's all gonna happen in the span of one weekend (the rest of saturday and sunday).
> 
> I'm already working on the next chapters, so hopefully, I'll be able to update soon.
> 
> Title is from "yes is a pleasant country" by e.e. cummings. (Because I'm an emo nerdy bitch.)  
> The chapter title is from _Night Trouble_ by Petit Biscuit.
> 
> xx


	2. pink + white

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> Here it is, chapter 2 ft. brief cameo from our dad and king Senne, some breakfast and a prelude to early-morning catharsis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Hope you enjoy this, cuties. ❤️  
>   
> 

The next morning, Robbe slowly emerges from sleep, when he feels the first rays of the sun, climbing through the window and up his bare leg. It’s followed by the awareness of an even better sensation, of a warm weight on his chest

He looks down, and has to blink a few times.

Sander is curled up against him, cheek smushed against Robbe’s chest, arm thrown around his waist in a loose grip. The steady puffs of breath and disheveled hair are a pleasant tickle over Robbe’s skin.

He’s drooling the tiniest bit, slack-jawed and sleep-warm, and he’s the loveliest thing Robbe’s ever seen.

Just for a moment, he imagines waking up to the sight every day. It’s followed by immediate regret, when tears prickle behind his eyelids and longing pulls at his insides, as acute as a physical ache.

Shifting a bit, Sander scrunches up his nose and grumbles in his sleep. Robbe makes out something about _Ziggy_ and _our cosmic saviour_ and _spiders from Mars_ , and barely manages to stifle his fond giggle. He lowers his lips and murmurs a small soothing _shh_ in Sander’s hair, waiting for him to relax again, before he presses a butterfly kiss to his forehead.

Slowly, he disentangles their bodies and gets up from the bed, careful not to wake Sander, who just burrows deeper into the warmth, shifting a bit to Robbe’s side of the bed.

Robbe looks at him for a bit longer, before he slips quietly out of his room.

After making his way to the kitchen and a brief mental debate while he waited for his coffee to get ready, he decided to put his limited cooking skills to use. Rummaging through the fridge and cupboards, he found everything he needs to make pancakes from scratch.

He sways around the counter and takes an occasional sip from his coffee, feet tapping to the music playing from his phone. When he starts sifting all the ingredients in a large bowl, a small sound to his left makes his head snap to the kitchen door.

Sander is leaning against the frame and, briefly, Robbe wonders how someone’s gaze could possibly be so intense at such an ungodly hour.

“Mornin’,” he says casually. Completely unaware of how sharply the early-morning rasp in his voice of is tugging at Robbe’s heartstrings.

“Good morning,” Robbe mumbles around his dry throat. “I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

“Don’t worry, you didn’t,” Sander assures him with a soft smile. He rakes a hand through his hair and steps inside. “Do you want some help?”

“Not really, at least not for now, I’m almost ready to start making those,” Robbe nods to the pancake batter. “You want some coffee?”

“Always,” Sander nods. Then, glancing to the side, where Robbe’s phone is still shuffling his playlist, he adds, “Plus, I think I might need caffeine, if you’re going to be the self-appointed DJ this time.”

Robbe frowns. “What?”

He searches Sander’s face, ready snap something more in response. Almost raises to the bait.

_Almost._

That is, until he sees how his eyes are crinkling slightly, full of mirth.

“Your taste in music is…” Sander bites on his bottom lip, a barely-restrained grin threating to take all over his face. “Questionable.”

Robbe splutters in mock indignantion.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” he giggles, swatting at Sander’s shoulder playfully. “We get it, Mr. _Bowie-or-die_ , you’re a pretentious art student.”

Sander lets a bright peal of laughter, flopping on a kitchen chair. Robbe places a mug on the coffee machine and thinks his heart might just burst with how much he loves this, their banter, when there’s no tension or misunderstanding, and it’s just the two of them. When the communication between them is easy, it’s the _easiest_ thing in the world, as natural as breathing.

Despite the fact that Robbe’s always been introverted, he’s never had much trouble talking to people.

But it was often just that, _talking,_ in the most basic sense of the word. Superficial social interaction, which barely scratched his surface and yet, still left him feeling drained sometimes, left the bitter taste of swallowed words and his face stretched too tight with forced smiles. More than once, Robbe has wondered if there was something wrong with him.

Then Sander came into his life, bringing the unexpected relief of a summer storm and the crystal clarity that talking to someone doesn’t necessarily mean connecting to them. The difference between the two is something Robbe fully grasped, once he found himself pinned under green eyes, intense and attentive, but not demanding, when they sat in that small kitchen in the beach house.

He met Sander and felt like he was actually communicating, felt _seen_ in a way he’d never quite experienced before, entirely devoid of any judgment or pretense.

Robbe loves the broerrrs, they’re his favorite people in the world, but even with them, he’s never felt that level of comfort and complete freedom to just _be_. And, as much as the thought pains him, even makes Robbe slightly guilty for having it—for the brief time he’s known Sander, he’s felt more like a best friend than Jens has been for the past several months, and Robbe’s not sure if that’s despite or _because_ of everything him and Sander have been through since they met.

What yanks him out of his own head and back to the present must be some cosmic irony, because as soon as the thought crosses his mind, he senses Sander stepping closer behind him—and just like that, Robbe’s reminded of all the ways his feelings for him are also definitely _not_ friendlike.

_Just the same way you showed me, showed me_

_You showed me love_

_Glory from above_

_Regard, my dear_

Vaguely, he registers the music, but the lyrics do absolutely nothing to distract him from the heat of Sander’s body, so fucking close to his own. Robbe wants to say something, but he can’t force out a single word. He can barely even breathe, too focused on every nerve ending buzzing to life and catching fire when he feels Sander’s hands reaching up. Slow, so gentle that Robbe wonders for a second if he’s not imagining it, fingers skim over his nape.

His knees begin to shake, when he feels the slight tug on the gold chain hanging from his neck and Sander’s hand comes into his vision, twisting around to bring the angel pendant back to his front. It’s a simple act, but the intimacy of it feels almost unbrearable, and Robbe has to bite his lip to swallow his whimper, the urge to ask _how are you doing this to me?_

After Sander withdraws his hand, Robbe tries to steady his breathing and turns around, leaning against the counter for support, before he looks up.

He lets his eyes get greedy, latching on to every small detail of Sander’s face. The strain and deep shadows of exhaustion from yesterday have melted, the vacancy is gone too, like the color has seeped back into his eyes. But more than the liquid seafoam green—softened by the morning sun and so fucking beautiful it makes Robbe's heart flutter—there's something else, even more mesmerizing. It's always been there, ever since they met, the well-known deep and unreadable flicker in his gaze; the intensity that simmers beneath the surface, pulling Robbe in like a tidal force and demanding his full immersion, makes a feeling expand in Robbe's chest, akin to the veneration one has for natural forces.

There’s a slight flush to Sander's cheeks, and Robbe’s nearly vibrating with how much he wants to drag his parted lips over the warm skin, breathe him in, fill his senses with a tangible evidence that he’s real and safe, that he’s here, _close to him._ They are close enough for Robbe to feel Sander’s breath on his face, and yet, still be aware of the invisible distance between. He wants to erase it, take a leap of faith over that insurmountable barrier.

He wants to sit on the counter and pull them closer, loop his arms around Sander’s neck, lock his ankles at the small of his back and trap him, at least for a little while, wants to have big hands clasp around his thighs and—

The succession of vivid mental images punches the air out of Robbe's lungs, makes blood rush to his cheeks, and he has no idea what’s written all over his face, but he feels completely transparent. Or it might just be the sensation of being stripped down by Sander’s eyes, pupils visibly dilating even in the bright-lit room, when they trail down all over Robbe’s body, like a slow caress.

When Sander’s gaze zeroes in on his lips, a full body shiver goes through Robbe, warmth surging to his abdomen, as his eyes drop to Sander’s lips too.

And that’s when Senne stumbles into the kitchen.

The two of them jump slightly, yanked out of their daze, before they put some distance between their bodies.

“Oh, good morning,” Senne says, halting in his step. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were with someone.”

“It’s okay,” Robbe smiles. Senne must sense some of the almost suffocating tension, because he hovers around the door, like he’s unsure if he can step inside, so Robbe says, “Senne, this is Sander.”

“Nice to meet you,” Senne says, coming closer and shaking Sander’s hand.

Sander replies a _you too_ , but Senne’s focus has already shifted, his eyes drifting over the bruise on Sander’s face. His eyebrows squeeze together slightly, and Robbe can almost see the gears turning in his head.

He knows the exact moment it clicks, because as soon Senne drops his hand, his gaze snaps to Robbe.

“You weren’t alone, were you?” his voice is calm, but the expression on his face is unreadable.

Although he expected the question, Robbe’s heart still starts racing. The words are out of his mouth before he knows what’s happening, and he'd like to think they come from a place of bravery and confidence, but he knows that at least some part of the feeling twisting his gut is panic.

“They saw us kissing,” he blurts out, hears Sander's sharp intake of breath next to him.

Senne’s eyes widen, and Robbe bows his head, too scared to see the surprise blending into disgust.

A beat of silence passes, and then, “Hey.” He hears Senne’s voice through the pouding of his heart, loud in his ears, but he can’t fucking look him in the eye. “Robbe.”

Few moments later he startles, when arms suddenly wrap around him.

“Thank you for telling me, Robbe,” Senne says softly, and Robbe relaxes into the hug. “You have nothing to be ashamed or feel guilty for. They are the ones who did something wrong here, not you.”

Robbe could cry for the acceptance and kindness in his voice, given without the slightest hint of hesitation. The comfort washes over him, feels like the warmth of a blanket. Feels unconditional like _family,_ reassuring like the smile Senne gives him, when he pulls back.

Looking at Sander, he says, “I’m really sorry you had to go through that, man.”

Sander gives a slow blink. “Thank you,” he replies, looking every bit as dumbstruck and relieved as Robbe feels.

Senne simply goes to the kitchen counter, starts his coffee, as he looks to the pancake mix.

“If you’re making pancakes, can you make some for me and Zoë too?” he asks with a small smirk. “Or, for Zoë, at least.”

“Yeah, sure,” Robbe says.

Taking his cup of coffee, Senne starts walking out of kitchen. At the door, he stops.

Turning around, he fixes his gaze on Sander.

“Take good care of him, okay?” 

Robbe gets slightly flustered by the words which, despite the friendliness and warmth in Senne’s tone, still sound like an impromptu shovel talk.

But Sander obviously appreciates them, because he only nods, lips lifting up in a smile, and says, “I’ll try my best.”

—

They are sitting on the kitchen table, finishing their pancakes, when Robbe’s phone starts ringing.

His heart skips a beat, when he looks to the screen and sees the number. He tries to quell the instinctive surge of panic, as he looks to Sander.

“Sorry, I have to take this,” he mumbles.

He sees Sander nod, but he’s already walking out of the kitchen and to his room, answering the call.

He releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding, when he hears that his mom’s doing okay. He makes an appointment with her therapist, the words _so we can discuss when she might be able to go home_ causing an involuntary smile to bloom on his face.

After hanging up, he just sits on his bed for a while, and tries not to get his hopes up. God, he misses her so much.

The door to his room opens slowly, pulling Robbe away from his thoughts.

“Everything alright?” Sander asks, stepping into the room hesitantly.

“Yeah,” Robbe nods. “I just need to go to the clinic.”

“Why?” The confusion on Sander's face quickly turns to concern. “Are you okay?”

“No, no, it’s not about me. It’s…my mom, she’s been going through a rough time for a while, and—” Robbe pauses, biting on his bottom lip. He wants to tell him, because ultimately, he trusts Sander, and if there’s anyone who makes Robbe comfortable enough to share this, it’s him. “She checked herself into a mental institution around the time I moved to this flatshare. She’s getting better, at least that’s what her therapist just told me,” he mumbles with a heavy sigh. Hearing the sadness in his own voice, he lowers his eyes in nervousness. Staring at his hands, he adds a quiet, “I go on visits every week or so.”

When the silence after drags too long, and no response comes, Robbe's eyes flicker up to Sander.

And he looks…conflicted. _Scared_. In a way that Robbe doesn’t think he’s ever seen him before.

His brows are pulled together tightly, eyes unfocused. He’s biting viciously on his lower lip, so hard it looks like he might draw blood any second. His hands, hanging limply by his sides, start to shake.

There’s tension visible in every muscle of his face, like he’s barely keeping it from crumbling, trying to contain some quiet, inner apocalypse.

“Sand—”

“Can I touch you?” Sander cuts him off. All at once, he seems to have snapped to attention, eyes wide and fixed on Robbe. “I mean…just get closer to you? Please.”

Robbe swallows hard at the sound of his voice, rough and laced with the urgency of someone running out of time. He can only nod in reply.

Sander doesn’t waste a second, steps forward and falls to his knees in front of Robbe. Burying his head in Robbe’s lap, his entire body goes lax, except for his arms, clinging to him, as he wraps them around Robbe’s middle.

“Sander?” Robbe asks softly, brushing a strand of hair away from Sander’s face. “What…what’s wrong?”

“Please, just let me have this,” Sander whispers against Robbe’s thigh, with an edge of desperation. “Let me feel you like this for as long as I can. _While_ I can. Please.”

“What do you mean? I don’t have to go to see my mom today, I’m not going anywhere, Sander.”

A sound between a laugh and a sob escapes from Sander’s lips.

“Not right now, but you will,” he mumbles. Robbe can feel the small tremors in his body, hear them seeping into every shaky word. “Pretty soon, you’ll want to leave. There’s something you don’t know…” The grip on Robbe’s sweatshirt tightens. With a shuddering exhale, eyelids clenching together, he says, “Something I have to tell you.”

He sounds disillusioned, like a man who’s renounced his faith and surrendered to the chaos and coldness of reality, and Robbe can’t think of a single reason why he would be so afraid.

What he knows is that he’s never seen Sander like this, and that makes him slightly afraid too, the inexplicable feeling that he’s standing on a precipice, as he whispers the question.

“Tell me what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> Okay, I couldn't resist ending this on a bit of a cliffhanger, in typical wtfock fashion. The next chapter is in the works, and it will be from Sander's POV, I hope it won't be too long before I'm able to post it. Feel free to let me know what you think, I always appreciate feedback. ❤️
> 
> Kind of a side note, probably unnecessary, but still an important part of this fic: I tend to find a loooot of inspiration in music, when I'm writing, so much that when I brainstorm, I have a specific song that inspires each chapter. I initially planned to put a title to every chapter, either that song's name or part of the lyrics from it (in this part, I even kind of incorporated it in the writing itself). BUT I kind of forgot to do that for chap. 1, which I fixed, of course, and I'm gonna do that from now on.
> 
> Think of it as a soundtrack to this fic and something to keep in mind, in case you want a more, uh, immersive experience. 😃 ~~And also, if you want to dip in my immaculate taste in music. Jeez, this sounds like such a Sander thing to say.~~  
>   
>  So, for this chapter, title is from Frank Ocean's _Pink + White_ , because, well, "Shameless" parallels, and because Robbe's skater boy aesthetic kind of screams Frank Ocean.


	3. truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Sooo, here it is, chapter from Sander’s POV that’s almost entirely plotless and kind of self-indulgent, which is why it's also significantly shorter, but I hope you still enjoy it. ❤️ This won’t be the only chapter from his POV, but an introspective deep dive in his mind (and the way he experiences _chernobyl_ in his own way) is something I’ve wanted to write for a while, so voila.
> 
> Title of the chapter is from Alexander Ebert’s _Truth_ , because whenever I put the lyrics of this song in the context of this chapter and Sander in general, I pretty much dissolve into a puddle of emo. Like, if this chapter was a song, it would be this one.
> 
> Please, keep the **TW** for this chapter in mind (in the end notes).  
>   
> 

“Tell me what?” Robbe asks him.

And, fuck, the words are on the tip of Sander’s tongue.

_Everything. I want to tell you everything._

Because he does, he wants to say more than the three words he’s dreading. He wants to tell Robbe about the familiar, ever-expanding feeling, surging through him once again, in the silence after the question.

It always seems to hit him at those in-between moments.

He felt it when he saw Robbe for the first time, back then still inexplicable and shapeless clench in his gut, much more intuition than anything else, but it settled deep inside him.

He felt it when he took a drag of the joint and looked through the cloud of smoke in the small kitchen, only to find doe eyes already fixed on him, attentive and crinkling with an unreadable spark of warmth, before Robbe lowered his head shyly. Sander remembers the dopey smile that stretched across his own face and the sudden dryness in his throat, both of which had much less to do with the weed, and a lot more with the way his stomach flipped with some great inner shift. It felt like the beginnings of a metamorphosis, something started irreversibly changing and growing inside him, new and fragile, like tendrils curling around his ribs.

He felt it when he opened his eyes underwater, submerged in that pool, and saw Robbe in slow motion and blurry. But his heart was racing, and every cell in his body was brought to sharp focus by a single thought, running on a loop. _I_ _don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything, as much as I want to kiss you right now._

He felt it that afternoon, mesmerized by Robbe’s face and how it lit up with excitement, when he talked about the multiverse theory, his hand raking absentmindedly through Sander’s hair.

He felt it this morning, after he woke up to noise and a faint smell of sizzling butter, and walked to the kitchen. Standing by the door, he tried to remain unnoticed, so he could savour the sight, and summoned every bit of artist’s visual acuity he has in attempt to imprint it in his mind—Robbe mixing pancake batter in his worn-out shirt, too big on him and falling from one shoulder, bare feet tapping on the kitchen tiles and his head bobbing to the music.

And he feels it right now—an undeniable warm glow in chest, not a flash of epiphany, but a truth that’s simply been crystallizing over time, taking deeper root inside him.

To answer the question, he has to strip himself bare of every pretense, lower every guard he has around his heart and show Robbe its half-stitched parts and jagged edges. So it probably shouldn’t be a surprise that the full extent of his feelings emerges right now, more clear than ever. Sander thinks maybe he’s kept it buried deep until now, out of fear of tainting it somehow—kept it hidden in the space in between his cheesy one-liners, all the teasing and innuendos. In all the words he swallows, too, because honestly, how could he express any of it without scaring Robbe off? Much less expect of him to have the same feelings.

What could he possibly say?

_It’s ridiculous, but I’m still trying to find the right words. The proper way to tell you how I feel about you. Sure, there’s “I love you” and “I’m in love with you”, and I’ve even said one of those, but when it comes to actually, fully putting the feeling inside me into words, I often think they are not nearly enough. I want to give you more than anyone has ever given. Because you deserve it, truly, you do. An entirely separate language about everything I feel for you, maybe. One I would whisper in your ear and shout from the rooftops._

_I could tell you “I’ve been waiting for you my whole life”_ _,_ _use the sappy one-liner, like I tend to do sometimes_. _But it would be a lie. The truth is, I didn’t expect you, because I never could’ve possibly imagined anything even close to you. I guess love really descends on those defenseless._

 _I’m past the point of thinking you’re only a dream, though I believed that for a while. But there’s still a lingering fear. You’re so tiny, but contain so much, and sometimes I get scared that if I touch you, you might dissolve into cosmic dust and particles, into violets and blues and green,_ _luminou_ _s_ _like a nebula, the way you were on our first date, under the neon lights of that bar._

_Without even knowing or trying to, you made sense of some things. Like that damn fixation Romantic painters have on the moon. I only fully got it, when I saw you by that garbage truck, my very own moonage daydream. Or, all those times my professors would talk about Schiele or Klimt, saying things like “coexistence of innocence and sensuality” or “latent eroticism”, and I’d always frown, not quite grasping the words. And then I met you, and thought “Oh.” It didn’t take long to understand exactly what they meant._

_You’re such a beautiful paradox, an endless source of fascination. Like a book full of secrets, waiting to be opened, to be read between its lines, and I want to do both._

_I draw you all the time, keep trying to do you justice on paper, and yet, I only come close to that elusive artistic perfection—to the feeling of creating something perfectly beautiful—when I manage to make you laugh._

_That’s probably why I really don’t mind being the punch line to your joke, if it means seeing your face light up with that laughter._

_And fuck if I don’t live for those moments, when I tease you, and you tease me right back. When you bring me down from my high horse with your lips, curving into a smirk. Like you did this morning. And, you know, joke’s on me for poking fun at your taste in music, because by the time we flipped the last pancake, we’d gotten to the end of your playlist, and I was unconsciously bobbing my head to A Tribe Called Quest. I think I blushed a little, when I realized what I was doing, and you were already staring at me with a small grin. Like you saw right through me, through all my teasing and cockiness. I guess you actually did, because you simply mumbled “don’t worry, I’ll keep your secret, you artsy snob” and I think it made me fell in love with you even more. And I didn’t know that was possible._

_God, I love your smile. I really, really do._

_Which brings me to the shape of your laugh lines, and did you know they make my knees feel weak?_

_Did you know you that you’re my best friend?_

_I really mean that_ — _so much, that I’d tell you things I haven’t told anyone. Like the weird fucking thoughts that go through my mind, when sadness creeps on me and I feel close to slipping, to getting lost in my own head. Like, how I sometimes try to think of the desolation as something physical, visualize its form. Which sounds absurd, I know, but if I imagine that I’m actually as small as I feel in those moments, I would be tiny enough to fit in the valley between your collarbones. I don’t know why, but the thought always gives me comfort._

_When I let my mind wander freely, I often think about all the possible permutations of my skin against yours. I want to map the planes of your body, worship it like it deserves to be worshiped, and do it slowly, like I’ve forgotten the concept of time. I want to fuck you until become incoherent, until your back arches and your eyes roll back, and I want you to do the same to me. It hardly matters how I imagine touching you, every tactile journey I’d make would be the same desperate attempt to communicate and show you, make you feel even a fraction of everything you do to me. The way you make me lightheaded and set my insides alight, send my senses into overdrive. And you can do that so effortlessly, just with the simple feather-light touch of your small hand on my face._

_I've known you for such a short time and fuck, this is all too much._

_But the scary part is, I know I'm not imagining any of it, it's not my mind exaggerating._

_I feel like that Radiohead song. Like I don’t belong here, because you really are an angel._

The thoughts all come in a rapid head rush, threatening to spill from him. Sander bites on his tongue hard enough to taste metal, and his eyes fill with tears, because he can’t say all of that, not right now, it wouldn’t be fair.

He can’t be completely transparent without telling Robbe about the days when colors seem brighter than usual, euphoria presses at the seams of his body, and his mind runs a mile a minute; the days when he feels like a withered leaf, all his energy sucked out, how he’s gripped by a childlike fear and pinned to his bed, because the monsters under it come back, only they settle under his skin instead. And how they make the sky feel too big, immense and empty, but crushingly heavy at the same time.

He can’t say, _The truth is that you’re overwhelming, and I still can’t get enough of you._

Not without also saying, _I’m scared that I’m too much and still not enough._

He takes a deep skydiver’s breath, feels like he’s bracing himself for a free fall.

Finding the bravery to look up and deep into Robbe’s warm and anxious eyes, he exhales the words.

“I’m bipolar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **TW** : mentions of manic/depressive episodes, internalized ableism
> 
>  **Important side note** : I don’t have bipolar, any mentions of it in this chapter are based on the knowledge I have about it from different sources. Still, If you have personal experience with bipolar, please don’t hesitate to correct any inaccuracies or if anything rubs you in the wrong way about the (mostly abstract) way I’ve described it. 
> 
> That "love descends on those defenseless" bit in Sander's inner monologue is a Bowie reference (to _Soul Love_ ).  
>   
> The Radiohead song that Sander refers to is _Creep_ , because, well, it's way too fucking fitting for the sappy angst-fest this chapter is. ❤️


End file.
